Wife By Agreement. KIM LAWRENCE
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he would approve of, and Ethan cared about the image they presented to the world. Didn’t it occur to you to ring me—or the police for that matter?’
‘I didn’t think to grab my bag; I had no money—nothing. The police aren’t interested in crimes that didn’t happen. He didn’t actually touch me.’
‘You’re sure he was going to?’
This was an insinuation too far! Anger enabled her to nudge aside the incipient exhaustion that made her eyelids heavy.
‘It was one of those occasions when prevention seemed better than cure,’ she snapped crisply. The snap seemed to surprise him. Tough, she thought with uncharacteristic venom. Under the circumstances she thought she was being quite restrained. What did he expect her to do? Sit back and wait to be a crime statistic? ‘I don’t let my imagination run away with me, Ethan.’
This was unarguable: Hannah Smith was the most placid, practical female that he had, in his thirty-six years, ever met. He frowned—after a year’s marriage he still thought of her as Hannah Smith, not Kemp. If anyone had suggested to him this morning that she was capable of throwing herself from a moving vehicle he’d have laughed at the absurdity of such an idea.
Hannah was not exactly timid, although her reserved manner made people initially assume she was, but she was not the sort of woman calmly to wade through muddy fields and brambles after extricating herself from a dangerous situation. At least he hadn’t thought she was. Would she have told him about it at all if he hadn’t witnessed her return? Had she intended appearing at breakfast just as if nothing had happened?
‘We should contact the police.’
‘Why? Nothing happened. I expect they’d write me off as a neurotic female.’ If Ethan could think it, why not total strangers? ‘I would like to get my bag back, though—my wallet’s in it.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to see that swine get his just deserts?’ he growled incredulously. He found it hard to identify with a turn-the-other-cheek philosophy.
‘Like?’ she said quietly. She raised her head and at first he didn’t realise the tears glistening in her hazel eyes were tears of rage. This only became obvious when she spoke and her voice shook with suppressed fury. ‘What I’d like to do is make him endure, just for five minutes, the sort of helplessness and terror I…’ She bit down hard on her lower lip to stop it trembling. ‘We rarely get what we like, Ethan.’
‘That’s a depressing philosophy.’ The depth of her passion shocked him; that she had any passion at all shocked him! More than shocked him—it made him uneasy. What other surprises lurked beneath the placid exterior?
‘It’s just an observation. Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to go to bed.’
He kept a hold on her elbow, as though he expected her to collapse at any moment. At the door of her bedroom she slipped the robe off her shoulders.
‘Thank you. Sorry if I got it grubby. Goodnight, Ethan.’ This polite, but firm, dismissal appeared to make him change his mind about what he was going to say. She smiled vaguely at him as she disappeared into her bedroom. A few seconds later she heard the sound of Ethan’s bedroom door slamming.
Her lip curled with distaste as she stripped. Even if she could have salvaged the clothes, she’d have put them out with the rubbish. As it was they hung off her like rags.
A glance in the full-length cheval-mirror shocked her. Her glossy brown hair had pulled loose of its neat French braid and was liberally anointed with mud. The long scratches along the right side of her face showed through the dirt. The streaks of mascara that gave her the look of a startled panda blended in with the general grime. The amount of flesh exposed through the gaping holes in her shirt was nothing short of indecent. No wonder Ethan had been shocked—she looked appalling!
It was a relief to stand under the hot spray of the shower and let the steamy water wash away some of her tension along with the dirt. It didn’t matter how hard she scrubbed, thinking about Craig made her feel grubby. How could a man who seemed so—well, normal act like that? Had she given the impression she would welcome such advances? She dismissed this horrifying notion swiftly. No, this hadn’t been her fault.
In her naïveté she had imagined that a ring on her finger gave a girl automatic protection from unwanted advances. She automatically glanced down at her finger—it looked oddly bare without the slim gold band. On her knees, she searched the floor of the shower cubicle. It wasn’t there. Panic out of proportion with the loss flooded through her.
She stepped out of the shower and hastily wrapped a towel sarong-wise about her body. She left a minor flood in the bathroom as she searched the floor there before retracing her footsteps into the bedroom. It was nowhere to be found.
‘I knocked,’ Ethan said as he appeared through the interconnecting door. It was the first time he’d used the door, and he knew it was ridiculous but he felt like an intruder in his own home. He didn’t see Hannah at first, and then he spotted her small figure crouched beside the dressing table, silent tears pouring down her cheeks. The obvious conclusion to draw from such grief was that she hadn’t told him everything that had happened. As he anticipated the worst his face darkened.
‘I’ve lost my ring!’ she wailed as she caught sight of him.
‘What ring?’ he asked blankly, moving to her side.
‘My wedding ring.’
He felt relief. ‘Is that all?’ he said dismissively.
She hardly seemed to hear him. ‘It might be in the kitchen, or on the stairs. I’ll go and check.’ She got rapidly to her feet—too rapidly, as it happened.
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ he said, catching hold of her elbows from behind and half lifting her across the room as her knees folded.
With a soft grunt he transferred her into his arms. She was incredibly light. Was she naturally slender, or were there more surprises in store for him in the form of eating disorders? Nothing would surprise him after tonight!
‘The ring doesn’t matter; I can buy you a new one. You’re overwrought!’ The last sounded almost like an accusation.
Hannah sniffed as he placed her on her bed. Of course he could; why on earth had she reacted like that? Why should a ring that symbolised their marriage of convenience be precious to her? She must be more careful. He was probably suspecting he was married to a mad-woman, she surmised, fairly accurately.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered huskily.
‘You’ve had a bad night.’ Her tears made him uncomfortable. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen this much of his wife before—even on the beach that summer she’d worn a baggy tee shirt over her swimming costume, and not even the children’s pleas could make her enter the water.
The towel she wore cut across the high swell of her small breasts and ended… Her legs were quite long in proportion to her diminutive frame. His wandering gaze encountered a pair of solemn hazel eyes, watching him watching, and he looked away abruptly.
‘I fetched this for the scratches.’ He held out a tube of antiseptic cream.
‘That’s kind of you, Ethan.’
‘Your back is badly scratched,’ he observed.
‘I can’t see.’
‘Or reach,’ he pointed out practically. ‘I expect you’ll feel it tomorrow—there are some nasty bruises coming out. Are you covered for tetanus?’
‘I think so.’
“‘Think so” isn’t sufficient; you must go to the surgery first thing in the morning for a booster. Turn around and I’ll put some cream on your back.’
His touch was impersonal, firm, but gentle. She felt warm and relaxed, and—for the first time since she’d leapt from the moving vehicle—safe.
‘You’ll